The Colonial Nightie
by tangledupinmist
Summary: Nights in a colonial climate can get quite hot, and not just when there's a fire.


Patrick tried to focus on his supply lists. Another week had passed and they would need quite a few urgent supplies from Cape Town as soon as possible. Which always meant it would take too long.

If only it wasn't so hot. Even though it cooled down a bit at night, the effect was felt only outside. The air in their bedroom kept being thick and sticky and he felt sweat run down his back. He had repeatedly thought about removing his pyjama shirt, but he knew Shelagh would not approve. Even in the bedroom things had to be proper or else she would not feel comfortable.

Shelagh settled down on her side of the bed and reached for a book she had placed on her nightstand. The hem of her nightie had slipped up her thigh and Patrick could not help glancing at her perfectly shaped leg. She never wore nighties like this at home, he hardly ever got to spot her thighs. And in all the years they had been married she still did not feel comfortable undressing in front of him while the light was on.

Patrick had been reluctant to comment on her exciting new item of clothing. To be honest, he had not been certain what she would have considered an appropriate comment. She was so difficult to read at times.

And this nightie was so unlike anything else she owned. Above all, he wasn't even certain whether she was wearing it to suggest doing what only married people should do with each other or whether she did actually feel this nightie was perfectly appropriate for a colonial climate in the sense of the word.

They had gotten better reading each other, though. Patrick remembered how early on in their marriage they never even managed to kiss because neither was certain when the time was appropriate or whether the other felt like it in that exact moment. So many awkward situations when he would approach her, she would turn her head and the kiss aimed at her lips landed on her cheek or ear or vanished in thin air.

Now Patrick's slender hand twitched. He could not help it and reached out to softly caress her thigh. Shelagh winced under his touch and tried to brush down the hem of her nightie again.

"Patrick, not here. We've talked about this. With Fred and Tom and the sisters in the same building, Sister Julienne even next door, I can't."

Patrick smiled and stilled his hand. They weren't newlyweds anymore, he thought, and he was perfectly content as it was. He wasn't twenty anymore and ever since Shelagh had had her operation knowing she would not have any children, her interest in marital relations had somewhat waned. Not that they did not enjoy themselves, but not very frequently. It had been the same with Marianne eventually. Nightly calls, a child, endless paperwork, everyday routine. It was the way all marriages took eventually, he thought. And he of all people knew, being a frequent guest at other people's houses, as their GP.

"Perhaps we could go off for a weekend. Stay at a B&B in Cape Town?"

"Patrick, everyone would know why we were going there," Shelagh protested.

"But Shelagh, we're married. Here just as much as back home. Why do you care so much what people may think?"

"Perhaps not people, but Sister Julienne. I just can't when she is… present," Shelagh replied curtly.

Patrick sighed. The little flash of excitement that had crossed his body and mind was about to wane. But now he felt even hotter. There wasn't an elephant in the room, but a religious sister, he thought, though with them being in Africa an actual elephant entering their room would not even be that surprising he mused and grimaced, appalled by this very bad joke.

"I am sorry, Shelagh, I know you don't approve, but I have to get rid of that shirt. I am soaking wet with sweat, I cannot concentrate," he complained and removed said shirt. He noticed the little beads of sweat caught in the little patch of thin, greying chest hair. A thought flashed his mind. Italy, heat, an hour of bliss during the war. Removing shirt, just wearing those very comfy army shorts, a fag. Long time ago, he thought before a little hum of disapproval coming from Shelagh's direction brought him back to the South African nightly reality.

Patrick was well aware of his wife frowning at his naked chest but this time he did what he had to do. As a concession to her sense of tidyness he decided to not just toss the shirt on the floor but got up and put it on the chair next to the chest under the window instead.

He thought he heard voices outside and went to the window but could not make out anyone out in the dark. Then he turned around, wanting to return to his bed, when his pyjama trousers got caught on a nail standing out of the chest.

"Bloody hell," he cursed as he first freed the piece of fabric and then inspected the rip that went across the length of his thigh.

Patrick removed his trousers and stood in the middle of their room in only his pants. Shelagh smiled at him. "O dear, let me see, I'll have to mend that tomorrow," she said, reaching out her arm, indicating him to bring the damaged piece of clothing.

Just then, someone shouted "Fire, fire, there's a fire, all out!" in front of their building.

Both Turners looked at each other, momentarily frozen, shocked and uncertain what to do next. Then reason kicked in and they jumped up and ran.

On their way out, Patrick grabbed his doctor's bag, placed next to the door, and Shelagh was able to get the little bag in which she kept all important documents.

Both hurried outside and found themselves among Sisters Julienne and Winifred in their nightdresses and gowns, Tom in his vest and trousers, barefoot, and Fred wearing only his shorts and work boots.

"Oh doc, hot inside, huh?" Fred asked and Patrick felt himself blush. It was only now that he became aware that he was wearing nothing but his pants. He noticed how Sister Julienne tactfully turned her head away and Sister Winifred forcefully suppressed a grin, also looking into the opposite direction. Was she whispering something? "I am not looking, really I am not," he seemed to make out.

"Patrick!" he then heard Shelagh gasp as if he had walked out like this deliberately. Great, he thought. Now she was stabbing him in the back, too.

"Everyone, I don't know what happened," they suddenly heard Fred's voice from inside their building. The handyman appeared in the doorframe, carrying an unlabelled bottle. He must have gone checking and returned. "False alarm, it seems. But while I was in, I thought I'd get this one for medicinal purposes," he said. "No offense, doc," he added into Patrick's direction. Then he opened the bottle and handed it to a bewildered Tom.

After everyone had taken a hearty sip of what turned out of a very strong-tasting whisky, Fred said: "Why don't we add another mouthful to a nice hot cuppa. Come on, everyone, follow me over to the kitchen."

Everyone followed Fred, only the Turners remained where they were. "I am sorry, Shelagh, but I was in emergency mode and forgot to cover myself. All I can think of is how to take care of those in need."

"Oh Patrick, you don't have to apologize. This whole situation is so absurd, it is almost funny. Well, poor Sister Julienne, I should think she will need to spend a few hours in prayer to make her forget what she never wanted to see in the first place."

Shelagh placed her little hand on his belly, there where it had started to become a bit podgy, and tickled him playfully.

Patrick raised his eyebrows at her. "What's all this?" he asked in surprise. She never ever would make fun of Sister Julienne this way. This clearly was a symptom of her still being in shock.

"Well then, while the others are gone and we are still wide awake, why not make use of what may be half an hour of being in our room without having anyone nearby?" Shelagh suggested in a seductive voice. "And whatever was in that bottle of Fred's, it surely made my blood boil."

Patrick groaned. What had happened within the past ten minutes? This certainly wasn't the Shelagh Turner who just had drawn back the hem of her nightie out of not being able to even have him touch her thigh.

He felt his pants become tight, even though the rest of his body was cooled by the evening chill. This was becoming confusing and exciting at the same time. He dimly thought he should not exploit her clearly unfit state, but all of a sudden, his brain was no longer able to think. Instead, his body began moving into the direction of their room, following Shelagh who was very slowly removing the piece of fabric that might be classified as a robe, if it wasn't so ridiculously transparent. Inside, it was so very hot. But he did no longer mind.

* * *

Tom and Fred were the last ones to still sit on the porch while the two Sisters had already returned to their quarters for the night.

"So, Fred," Tom asked, voice slurry after his fourth glass from Fred's mysterious bottle. "This fire alarm, that wasn't really a fire alarm, was it?"

Fred smirked. "You got my number, lad," he chuckled, pouring each of them another glass. "So did you notice that desperate face of the doc whenever he is laying eyes on his wife? And him never once getting up from his chair last weekend at the beach, always holding on to those papers? I thought I'd do him a favour and give them a little privacy by dragging you all over here for half an hour tonight. Watch out for him tomorrow, he'll be a lot more relaxed, I bet you. He'll be a different man, the doc," Fred laughed and Tom joined him.

He was having his own fantasies about a certain woman, now soundly asleep in the little hut where the nurses were accommodated.

"I should not say this," Fred carried on, "not in front of you anyways, but Mrs Turner, she did look pleasing to the eye in that bathing suit of hers. I can understand the poor doc," he grinned. "Not that I'd ever think anyone would be able to hold a candle to my Vi that is," he added.

Tom smirked, quite inappropriately for a clergyman, and both men raised their almost empty glasses one last time.


End file.
